


Maybe This

by FiaMac



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Dean Can't Handle Silent Treatment, Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, M/M, Missing Scene, Phone Calls, Post-Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, Sarcastic Castiel (Supernatural), arguing like a married couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24045979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Set after "The Rupture" — The conversation doesn't end when Castiel walks out the door.Castiel is tired. Tired of driving, tired of stumbling his way through human emotions. Mostly, he’s tired of censoring himself for Dean’s comfort.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 55





	Maybe This

**Author's Note:**

> I continue to offer my love and appreciation to oceaxe

**_Maybe this is your fate_ **

**_When you're all outta grace_ **

**_Ain’t no good to no-one, now_ **

**_Floatin' away, away, away_ **

Deep into the night, the bunker still rings with the echoes of closing doors.

A mostly empty glass in hand, Dean prowls the hallways on silent feet, nothing but his own shadow to mark his passage. He’s uncomfortably reminded of roaming hospital walls with one foot in the grave.

The lights are on. Nobody’s home.

Sam retreated into his room hours ago to lick his wounds. The door had latched behind him with a decisive click, making it clear that company would not be welcome. The part of Dean that’s been _big brother parent protector_ as long as he can remember wants to barge in, anyway. But there’s nothing he could give that would replace what Sam just lost.

No, Sam needs quiet and peace right now, and Dean’s mind is screaming too loudly within himself to offer either.

As for Cas…

Dean slugs back the last of his whiskey as he steps up into the library, dropping the glass on a random shelf. It’s a game he plays, or maybe a test, to see how much he can get away with before Sammy or Cas nags him back into order. Usually a sticky glass left next to irreplaceable lore books is all it takes to provoke their eagle eyes of censure. An exasperated huff. An exaggerated glare.

Something tells him that glass is going to go unnoticed for quite a while.

He leaves it, anyway.

He cuts a direct path through the war room, resolutely keeping his eyes from the staircase and the door above. His steps slow again once he hits the hallway, drifting back and around to the garage.

The light from the hallway only cuts a narrow path through the dark, but the Impala doesn’t need much to shine. She rests in a place of honor, front and center, instead of being relegated to a parking bay like the other old beauties sleeping within. This car—his one constant, his island of belonging—she beckons him into her glossy embrace. Except instead of taking his customary spot behind the wheel, he crawls into the backseat where the shadows are deeper, soothing. The silence of the bunker can’t reach him in here.

Dean moves until he’s sitting in the middle of the bench and looks out front through the windshield. Imagines seeing himself at the wheel, Sam to the right with a book in his face, the two of them occasionally chatting in Winchester shorthand.

Is that what it’s like for Cas, sitting back here by himself?

Shifting gears mid-thought, he swivels around, legs scrunched up so the rest of him can lie flat on the seat. The leather is cold. His joints protest the lack of space and cushion. But he flirts with the idea of sleep for the first time all night. The familiarity of the car—its textures and smells—trips the wire on childhood memories. Him and Sammy curled up on their respective sides, toes meeting in the middle after days of careful negotiation. Until he’d gotten old enough, and they’d had enough of living in each other’s pockets, to insist on claiming the front passenger seat for his own. He’d been, what—ten years old? Twelve at the most.

Or maybe none of that really happened. Maybe it, too, is just a figment of Chuck’s imagination.

Cas is convinced that everything is still real, still counts. But the angel’s convictions leave something to be desired, lately, and Dean has reached his limit on disappointment.

Cas apparently has, too, or he wouldn’t have left. Or, hell, maybe he would have. Cas is always leaving, one way or another. By choice or not, he disappears, and each time Dean wonders if it’s for the last time. The final non-goodbye, and he’ll never see Cas again.

And he wonders—if none of it matters anymore, why he’s still holding back.

Dean wiggles around until he has his phone in hand, watching in a detached fashion as he makes the call. It rings twice on the other end before the call is answered.

_“Hello, Dean.”_

He can hear road noise over the line and tries to remember when he last changed the oil in Cas’s truck. Oh, right, when Cas left to have some “me time” right before everything went to shit.

“Tell me something, Cas. Why’s it always so easy for you to walk away, huh?”

_“Easy. You think there’s anything easy about this?”_ There’s a wealth of outrage in those words, which has Dean squirming with anticipation. “ _You—you think this is how I want things to be?”_

“Sure looks it from where I’m sitting.”

_“Well, Dean. Frankly, I’m surprised that you can see anything with your head inserted so far up your rectum.”_

In the dark, he smiles—a quick flash teeth bared like fangs. “And when did angels get so sarcastic?”

_“Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe during my millennia of existence while your ancestor was just a weird looking fish in the mud.”_

“There it is. That angelic supremacy. Always so confident, so self-righteous, aren’t you Cas. Not like you’ve made—wait, let me count. Oh, that’s right. Every dumbass decision a person could ever make.”

_“You would know about bad decisions, wouldn’t you?”_

Dean doesn’t have a good response to that, so he hangs up instead.

**_And we've always been dreamers, babe_ **

**_Half on the earth, and half in space_ **

The next time his phone rings, Castiel considers not answering. He knows it’s Dean, even without taking his eyes from the road. But their conversations aren’t exactly going well, these days.

To say he’s frustrated would be an understatement. For so long, he’s tried to get Dean to talk to him, until finally there were no more words he could say—not words that Dean would hear, in any case. Talking now, just for the purpose of throwing stones at one another, is maddening.

Yet, on the tails of that thought, he’s already accepting the call. “Hello, Dean.”

_“Where are you?”_

“Does it matter?”

_“Just answer the fucking question.”_

“Junction City.”

_“You got weapons? Money?”_

Castiel rolls his eyes even though he realizes the effect is lost without an audience. It still makes him feel better. “Yes, Dean. I know how to do this, now.”

Another time, even as recently as a day ago, Dean’s protective instincts would have meant everything to him. He used to take it as proof that Dean valued his safety and companionship. Now, he hears nothing but obligation in Dean’s voice, and Castiel twists in his fear that he’s become another burden to shoulder.

_“Fine. Whatever. See if I care.”_

“Do you?”

It’s a reckless question, the type of verbal confrontation he’s always been wary of attempting with Dean. Forcing a Winchester’s back to a wall tends to backfire, after all. But Castiel is tired. Tired of driving, tired of stumbling his way through human emotions. Mostly, he’s tired of censoring himself for Dean’s comfort, so the question is out before he can second-guess the impulse.

At this point, he has nothing left to lose but faith. Foolish of him, but his faith in Dean has always burned strong, even when belief in everything else withered.

Please, he thinks. Please.

Predictably, Dean goes quiet. Long enough that Castiel is certain he won’t respond, and then—

_“That’s never been the problem.”_

Dean sounds tired, too. Which is more of an answer than words could ever be. He was right to leave. “I know.”

This time, he hangs up first.

**_Now I'm thin as the walls in the old hotel_ **

**_I've rang the bells in the poisoned well_ **

**_And I thought it would help_ **

**_To save me from myself_ **

Hours later, Castiel watches the dawning sun seep through the curtains of his motel room. The light is gray and muted, fractured by floating specks of dust. It feels like an appropriate setting for the thoughts keeping him on edge.

He contemplates opening the curtains. To properly let the light in. Instead, he rolls over on the stale-smelling bed and puts his back to the window.

Castiel doesn’t sleep, but he closes his eyes and pretends. Maybe physical respite will somehow bolster his failing grace. If he lies still, mind quiet, maybe he’ll wake up feeling like a new man. He’s not sure he understands how that’s supposed to work, but the idea sounds wonderful right now.

Except after a few minutes that feel like eons, he’s on his back again, staring at the ceiling. Fake slumber is proving to be more difficult than anticipated.

Maybe he’s doing it wrong.

He reaches for his phone and dials without looking away from the dimpled patterns on the ceiling.

Dean doesn’t answer.

**_I broke under the strain_ **

**_and I fell into the cracks_ **

**_And how I cracked_ **

Dean shuts off the shower just in time to hear his phone give a final buzz before falling silent. He dries off quickly, ears perked for the short beep indicating a new voicemail. None comes.

Hair dripping water down his neck, he hurries into his dead guy robe and grabs the phone off the counter. One missed call from Cas.

He calls back without even thinking about it and waits, gut clenching tighter and tighter as the phone rings and rings without—

_“Dean.”_

“You okay?”

_“I’m… fine.”_

Cas doesn’t sound fine, but he doesn’t sound like he’s in danger, either. Dean takes a slow breath and lets it out as quietly as he can, away from the phone.

_“Dean?”_

He hears rustling on the other end and throws himself back into the call. “Still driving?”

_“No. I’ve, uh, stopped for the night. A few hours.”_

“Okay. I mean… that’s good.” He fumbles, hoping and dreading to hear more, but Cas says nothing. The silence draws out, awkward. He clears his throat. “Right, well then, I’m—”

_“How did this happen, Dean?”_

Dean drops his head back, eyes closing. This is exactly the conversation he doesn’t want to have. “You were there, Cas. Chuck went all fatal attraction on our asses and tried to end the world.”

_“That’s not what I meant.”_

“Yeah, well, that’s the only topic on the table.”

Cas makes a sound, more like a growl than anything else Dean could name. _“Because you refuse to talk. About anything important.”_

Dean uses his free hand to wad up his discarded clothes into a rumpled ball and heads out. Damned if he’s having this conversation in the fricking bathroom, of all places. “You don’t want to start this, Cas.” Leave it be, he wants to say, but Cas tends to blow through warnings with nearly Winchester-worthy aplomb.

_“Perhaps it’s time you stopped telling me what I should want.”_

He feels his brows shoot up at the sharp statement. “Oh, really?”

_“Really.”_

Alright, then, angel. Game on. “You know, I wouldn’t have to step in if you only learned how to think, for once. You want to know where things went wrong?” he hisses into the phone, careful as he passes Sam’s room. “ _That_ right there. Because you don’t think shit through.”

_“Or. Maybe,”_ the word drawn out with endless sass, _“it was all those times you shut everyone out, refusing to let any of us save you from your own stupid ideas.”_

“Maybe when you proved I couldn’t depend on you, no matter how much I wanted to trust you.”

_“Maybe when you stopped praying to me, despite everything I did to be at your side.”_

That stops Dean cold, there in the hallway two steps from his bedroom. And then he goes hot all over, hurrying into the room and—barely, just barely—resisting the urge to slam the door behind him. “Bullshit. I never stopped praying. _You_ stopped listening.”

He stands there—jaw clenched, fingers cramped around the phone, braced for battle. But there’s only silence.

After a moment he drops down onto the edge of his bed, feeling exhausted and jacked up all at the same time. Finally, there’s more rustling from Cas’s end. A deep breath. A sigh.

_“I didn’t… I listened. Even when I—I was always listening, Dean. Maybe… but maybe I couldn’t always hear you.”_

Dean rubs his burning eyes. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Another sigh. _“I wish I knew. But I don’t… Dean… If I could make this better for you, I would.”_

“Cas.”

_“But every time I try, I just make things worse.”_

“Ever think the solution, then, is to stop going off on your own?” Dean grasps for the anger, never too far in the background, because anger is safer territory than the despair in Cas’s voice. “Keeping us in the dark. Keeping _me_ in the dark.”

_“I was trying to protect my family. You’ve done the same, time and again.”_

He laughs without the slightest trace of humor. “And it always blows up in my face. You were supposed to learn from my mistakes.”

_“Instead, I’ll have to learn from my own.”_

“Yeah, well. Might be too late for that.”

_“It’s not. Don’t—don’t say that.”_

“I don’t know what else to say to you.”

_“You do,”_ Cas presses, as if it’s truly that simple. As if gravity wasn’t shoving Dean’s heart into his stomach and wrapping his lungs around them both, for good measure.

_“You just can’t bring yourself to say it.”_

This time, Dean is the one who falls silent for too long before responding. “Why should I? It won’t change anything.”

_“Or it could change everything.”_

“Not in any way good.” Dean bites his lip at Cas’s sharp cut of breath. Regret sits, thick and sour, in his throat. But he pushes on. “We’ve been spinning this wheel for years, Cas, and all we have to show for it is pain and bad memories.”

_“That’s not true. Dean, it’s not.”_

But he just barrels on. “So, I’m thinking, maybe you were right. Maybe it’s time for all of us to just move on.”

_“Dean.”_

“Bye, Cas.”

**_As my body starts to eat itself_ **

**_I wish upon all the stars that fell_ **

**_And you know this is fucking hell_ **

_"You’re an idiot.”_

Dean finishes dumping water in the coffeemaker but doesn’t hit the switch. Coffee can wait a few minutes. He’s wide awake as it is, and Sammy won’t be leaving his room anytime soon. “Me? I’m the idiot?”

_“And you’re a coward.”_

“Gee, Cas,” he snarls, leaning back and getting comfy against the kitchen island. “Tell me what you really think.”

_“Fine. You’ve spent your entire lifetime blaming yourself for everything bad that’s ever happened around you. Because you’re stubborn. Narrow-minded. And you’re… infantile.”_

“Excuse me?” The baby in a trenchcoat is gonna call _him_ infantile?

_“And because martyring yourself is easier than accepting that, sometimes, horrible things happen. And you’re powerless to stop it_ _—”_

Dean cuts him off, his temper ripping through him like an electric charge. “What, you mean like fate? I swear, if you try and tell me all things happen for a reason, I’m gonna—”

_“Maybe they do.”_

“That’s no excuse for sitting back, doing nothing, while people get hurt.”

_“Isn’t that what you’re doing, now?”_

Oh, hell no was Cas turning this back around on him like that. “Fuck you. This is different.”

_“No, Dean, it’s really not. And–and fuck you, too.”_

Dean’s lips twitch, but he keeps his voice steady through sheer—fine, okay, stubbornness. “Big talk, sunshine.”

_“Yes, well, maybe I’m done talking to you, you… assbutt.”_

The line goes dead. Dean stares at his phone until the screen dims then finally goes black, Cas’s name blinking away like it’d never been there.

He scoffs at his own melodramatic musings and leaves the kitchen. Coffee can wait a bit longer. His world is no less fucked than it was hours ago, but he thinks now he can at least sleep for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Excerpts from the song "No Good To No-one Now" by Michael Malarkey


End file.
